TITLE: Tempo (1/3) AUTHOR: JessM EMAIL ADDRESS: snarkypup@hotmail.com DISCLAIMER: Um, not that I know of, unless Chris would like to give me a really awesome Christmas pressie. I've been much more naughty than nice, though, so maybe not. DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: Blink and you'll miss them. RATING: PG. No, Darla, that was not a typo. CONTENT WARNING: None. CLASSIFICATION: X-File, UST SUMMARY: Mulder gives new meaning to the words "Type A personality". AUTHOR'S NOTE: No, I'm not a scientist, though I sometimes play one in my fiction. So probably this is all impossible. Oh well. So are Flukemen, and you don't see me complaining. I need to give credit to the Discovery Channel's excellent documentary "Supernature" for the whole pigeon/snail thing that gave me this idea. Go Discovery Channel, Go! I love ya! Pondering the immanent resolution of certain aspects of the show, I decided to write a nice X-file/UST story while there was still a U in UST. Sigh. Email me: I ravage them. Tempo The one thing I never remember to expect is the shock wave. I've been in several explosions, both real and synthesized in the training lab at Quantico, and I still never think I'm going to be flattened like a proverbial pancake. I remember the burning debris, falling pieces of ceiling tile, fire, smoke, terror. But I always forget the damn thing will knock me flat on my face, pushing the wind from my body and sending me rocketing across the floor like a broom. But that is exactly what happens when the lab at Tempo Gerontology explodes, knocking me and George, the unfortunate research assistant, to our knees and then onto our noses and finally, accordianed against the far wall like cartoon characters. As soon as I can I am standing and running, not thinking about my own bleeding skin, or the way my scalp burns or the fact that I am clearly in shock. Sometimes being a doctor just doesn't mean shit. All I can think as I'm pushing my way past fallen lights and crumbled bits of drywall is Mulder, Mulder, Mulder, as if he's standing there and I'm calling him. But he is not standing there. Because the lab where I left him just a minute ago, poking through piles of research papers and test tubes like a man in a foreign country trying to figure out how to speak the language, is now engulfed in flames so hot I cannot breathe. The searing heat blisters the skin on my hands as I am pulled away from it. From him. Or rather, what must be left of him, because there is simply no way that anyone could have survived the resulting conflagration. Even though I know that, I am still shouting: "My partner is in there! My partner! Please!" But no one is listening. xxxxx "How many sick days have I taken this year, Mulder?" Mulder is at my door, bearing something warm and delicious-smelling in a large paper bag. He is clearly hoping I won't notice the file folder tucked under his left arm. Since I have been home all day, hotter than hell and aching miserably, he hasn't been able to annoy me. This must have driven him nuts and so here he is, shuffling from foot to foot like a twenties jazz singer. I am glaring at him, arms crossed, foot tapping, a vision in my slouchiest terry robe and flannel pajamas. There's something about sweaty, feverish nights and satin that just doesn't work, even for a sensualist like me. He looks at me, sheepishly, and continues to hold out the bag with a hopeful crinkle around his eyes. "None. Not counting today." "Exactly," I say, not letting him by. His eyes are pleading for forgiveness, but his smile is still too cocky. "None. And that counts today, since clearly you came here to work, despite the fact that when I called in this morning you insisted that I rest and relax and not think about anything case-related." "I'm sorry Scully," he says. "But this was so fascinating andÉ and I brought coconut soup from the Thai place. With tofu, just how you like it. That's a nice robe, by the way. Very Club Med. And have I mentioned how cute you look in bunny slippers?" For a second we both look down at the black-eyed, perky-eared creatures on my feet and then up at each other. I don't think Mulder knew I owned bunny slippers. I'm not sure this won't make him all soft and mushy like an over-ripe peach later, snuggling up to me on the couch and trying to be sweet. "Stop trying to butter me up, Mulder. Is this the good coconut soup, from Thep Lela?" I ask, eyeing the bag suspiciously, as if it might in fact contain something else entirely, something sinister. A severed head, perhaps. "It is, and I swear, Scully, all you have to do is listen." xxxxx And that is how he gets me. I sit on my couch, shaking my head as I pick out one perfectly cooked mushroom from the luscious pale yellow broth. It is so Mulder. Just listen. Yeah, and flukemen are going to fly out of my butt. I slurp the mushroom from the spoon as he lays out the case. "So, you've heard of Tempo Gerontology Institute?" "Of course I have, Mulder. They're a well known research facility. I have a friend from med.-school who interned with them. What about them?" He shifts and literally drinks a large spoonful of soup. Next time, tea spoons. Mulder is the sort of man who absolutely consumes everything; soup, partners, life. "Well, three weeks ago a researcher named Francine Roberson disappeared. Security cameras record her entering the building at nearly ten p.m., but they never show her leaving. The last thing the cameras in the research laboratory show is Dr. Roberson standing in front of her desk and then she's just gone." "Gone? As in disappeared?" "Exactly. One minute she's there, then she's not. Very Vegas, very Penn and Teller. At any rate, that was enough to get my attentionÉ" "I'll bet," I say. "Cute," Mulder makes a face at me and picks a piece of tofu from his soup with his fingers, dropping it into his mouth like a Roman emperor with a grape. "So I've been keeping an eye on things over at Tempo Gerontology and today, I found out about this." He hands me the folder, but keeps right on talking, as if I can't read. I leave it closed on my lap and sigh, content to hear him out and eat the tiny spears of broccoli so delicate they seemed to melt in an instant on my tongue, green and buttery. It's not like I haven't missed him today, though I would never tell him so. He already suspects he's the center of a vast global conspiracy, so if I want him to be bearable, he hardly needs to know he's the center of my universe as well. "This morning, at exactly four-thirty, one Wayne Nichols enters Tempo Gerontology as part of the janitorial staff. This is confirmed by the security cameras set up at the front door and in several of the labs. One interesting thing to note is that he's carrying a 32-ounce cup of Starbucks' finest." "Fine, so the janitor enters, drinking coffee. So would I if I was working at four-thirty in the morning." "Patience, my dear Scully. At seven-thirty, when the janitorial staff are getting ready to leave, they notice young Wayne is missing. They find his empty coffee cup in one of the labs, quite careless and most unlike him. So they decide to check the janitorial closet, where they find him. Definitely suffering caffeine withdrawals." Reluctantly, I open the folder and examine the picture of Wayne Nichols, stomach bloated like a balloon. "Mulder, this man looksÉ" I find myself turning the photo sideways and peering at it, puzzled. "That man looks like he died of advanced dehydration, Scully, which, according to the medical examiner, is exactly what he did die of. Now, I understand that there are some folks who maintain that Starbucks is in fact, the drink of the devil, but I hardly thinkÉ" I reach for my glasses, which Mulder obligingly hands over. He really is spooky. "But how can he have died of thirst, Mulder, when he was only in the closet for three hours, at the most?" "Gee, Scully," Mulder says, delighted to have piqued my interest. "I don't know. It's aÉ why, it's a mystery!" "Right. Ok, so you want me to go down to the medical examiner's office tomorrow and do an autopsy, while you poke around the labs at Tempo Gerontology and see what you can turn up. Because somehow, you believe, this death and Dr. Roberson's disappearance are linked." He is gazing at me with those large dark eyes, half-smirking, half-genuinely smiling. "Have I mentioned recently that I am completely willing to be your slave?" "No," I say, shutting the file on the picture of Wayne Nichols as he was just a few days ago, a body-builder, young and handsome. "And unless you feel like rubbing my feet with peppermint foot lotion and waving a little fan over my bed, you had better go." He doesn't move. "MulderÉ" I begin. "You're right," he says. "The peppermint foot lotion would be just a bit too much. So I'll see you tomorrow? You're feeling up to it?" "Would it matter if I wasn't?" He looks wounded, standing and stretching his muscles, jutting out his stomach like a child. "Scully, I just brought you Thai coconut soup. Obviously your health matters to me." "Fine. I'll call you in the morning." "Deal," he says, and then gets that look. The one he always has when he knows he has to leave and doesn't really want to. I wonder if I ever have the same expression on my face. But tonight, after glowing like a nuclear reactor all day, I don't feel even slightly frisky. "Go," I say gently, pushing him out the door. "Get some rest. Turn off your mind for a few hours. The brain requires sleep in order to function at it's full capacity." "Good night, Scully," he says, and I watch him walk down the hall and open the door to the street. I wish now that I had asked him to stay, just for a few more minutes. xxxxx When I wake in the bright white light of a DC winter morning, I do feel better. Perhaps it was the coconut soup, or perhaps it is the idea of spending the day cutting open a severely dehydrated janitorÉ I think it must have been the soup. I am in the car battling traffic with all the venom of an urban warrior princess when the phone rings. "Hey Scully, it's me." As if it would be anyone else. "Good morning, Mulder." "How are you feeling this morning? Better? Autopsy-at-the-lab-better?" "I'm fine," I tell him. He's quiet for a moment. "Really, Mulder, I'm all right. Where do you want me to meet you when I'm done?" "Just call me," he says. "I'll let you know where I am. I have all sorts of things I'm poking into." "I'll bet," I say, ignoring the dirty thoughts that flood my head. "All right," I finish, expecting him to hang up. He doesn't. "Mulder?" "So Scully," his voice sounds as if he's walking and he's whispering, intimately, as if we are communicating in a crowd. I hate it when he does this. Ok, I love it when he does this. I'm conflicted. Who wouldn't be? "What are you wearing?" "Nothing," I say, not really thinking about it. And then I do and I think, what the hell? "I'm sitting in my car, stark naked in middle of morning rush hour, waiting for you, baby." He snorts, but not entirely in laughter. Shock, I think. So I hang up on him. I have all the time in the world to chat with him. xxxxx Mulder meets me at the Tempo Gerontology Institute. It's a large, ugly building, which was clearly built on the same principle as most school portables. Strangely, the grounds are lovely, even in the winter, frosty and crisp, sparkling in the first real sun of winter. Mulder is sitting on the steps, eating sun flower seeds and warming himself in the afternoon light, his escaping breaths the only clue that it's probably only 33 degrees. "So?" he says, standing up and towering over me. Since he is standing two steps up, I am almost at eye level with his crotch. I step up to stand beside him, putting me at eye level with his nose. Much the same thing, really. You know what they say about men with big nosesÉ at any rate, after a few sophomoric thoughts on the subject, I answer him. "Wayne Nichols did indeed die of dehydration, Mulder. But here's something interesting: I found traces of all sorts of poisonous liquids in the soft tissues of his mouth." "Poisonous liquids?" he asks. "Sure, I'd say Drano, bleach, and Windex." "All liquids commonly found in a janitorial closet." "Exactly. If I didn't know better, Mulder, I'd say he'd been locked in there for days and finally started drinking anything he saw in desperation, but wasn't able to swallow any of it." He nods and ushers me out of the way as someone passes us to enter the building. We keep our voices low, as if anyone would care what we say to one another. I think it's really just an excuse for Mulder to stand only inches from me, his broad body emanating enough energy to send shivers across my already-cold chest. If there's such a thing as psychic fondling, Mulder's been practicing it for years. "I have a theory on this, Scully, but I am going to need your help. I'm no scientist. Do you know what Francine Roberson was researching?" I shake my head, watching him warm up to his own ideas. "The advanced metabolic rates of fruit flies." I ponder this for a moment. "She was seeking a correlation between aging and a person's metabolism?" "Yes. Now, if you have an accelerated metabolism, don't you have to eat more? And drink more? Doesn't a hummingbird have to eat every four hours or something?" I see where he's going. "Yes, Mulder, but for a person to die of thirst in just three hours, their metabolism would have to running at a fantastic rate, nearly two or three-hundred times the speed we operate at now. It just isn't possible for the human body to sustain that sort of metabolic reaction. You'd die of heart failure." "Still, it could explain it." "Yes, yes it could. I think we should take a peek at some of Dr. Roberson's research. If she has, in fact, come up with a way to raise the body's metabolism, that research could be quite valuable." Mulder nods, leading me into the building, his hand in the small of my back. "Come talk to her lab assistant. This will fascinate you, I'm sure." xxxxx He's right. It does fascinate me. Francine Roberson's assistant, a nice young man named George Rascouchi, leads me through it with a great deal of excitement. Mulder is standing in the background, complaining occasionally that something is brushing his cheek or his ear or his hand, something that feels suspiciously like a fruit fly. Finally, George rises and tries to boot up the Doctor's most recent work on his computer. "I'm sorry," he tells me. "I don't have total access from this terminal. I can take you into her office and show you, if you like." "Sure," I say. "Mulder?" "I'm ok here, Scully," he says, looking at a box buzzing with flies. "I think I'll try and catch the little bastard that keeps tickling my cheek." I know he's bored, so I agree. "Fine, I'll be right back. Don't knock anything over." He glances back at me, those large eyes and sweet smile cutting through me with a small slice of pleasure. "Sure, you know me. I'll just stand here andÉ whoops!" He pretends to drop and then catch a vial of fruit flies. George rolls his eyes with me and we walk down the hall to the Doctor's office. "So," George says, smiling at me. "He's your, you know, partner?" I am doomed to have research assistants fall in love with me. I just smiled enigmatically and follow him inside. We have downloaded and printed out all of the remaining text and are just going over a graph when I first smell the gas. "George, you didn't leave a Bunsen burner on in the lab, did you?" I joke. He sniffs the air and looks at me, puzzled. It is the last thing I see clearly. George's little wrinkled nose. xxxxx I refuse to go to the hospital. The paramedic stands with me in the freezing cold DC night, the clear sky letting the earth's heat rise up to join the white light of the sprinkling of visible stars. He stitches up the cut on my leg and cleans the burns on my hands, glaring at me the entire time. I will not leave. Not while the room where I left my entire life smolders and pops like a bonfire. Skinner crosses the manicured lawns of the research center and stands in front of me, hands on his hips. "Go home, Scully." To what, I feel like asking. To who? "Did you or did you not find Agent Mulder's body?" I demand. He winces and shakes his head. "We haven't found anything yet, but the fire isn't completely out. Look, Scully, if he weren't in the lab, he'd have been found by now. I'm sorry, but that's the truth." The paramedic finishes up and gathers his equipment. "Thanks," Skinner says. The man simply glares and walks away. Skinner places his hands on my shoulders and gently shakes me. "Go home," he says again. "I promise we will call you the minuteÉ" But he doesn't finish. Another agent, one I have never met, clears his throat behind Skinner. "I found the tape," he says, cryptically. Skinner nods and turns to me, almost apologetically. "There was a camera in the lab. If you want, you can come watch." I know I'm in shock, but it doesn't matter. This could be the last few minutes of Mulder's life. Of course I want to watch. I follow the men back into the building, to the back of the structure, where a video monitoring station has been set up for the security personnel. The other agent pops a tape into the VCR and rewinds it. Suddenly I am looking at us: myself, George and Mulder. Mulder touches his cheek, brushing away another imaginary fly. I say something and he turns. We watch his little vial-dropping act before the agent hits fast-forward and we are watching Mulder alone. He looks quite large on the tape, alive and vibrant even in black and white, like a film star. I smile despite myself. Then suddenly he starts to turn, possibly smelling the gas, just like I did. There is a bright, bright flash from the corner of the room and then nothing. Static. We stare at the tape, the proof that he is gone. Only then do I collapse to my knees. Skinner grabs my elbow and hovers there, unsure whether he should even try to help me up. I look like the widow at a Mediterranean funeral. "I want that tape," I say. "But," the agent says, "it's evidence." "Make a copy," Skinner growls and gently pulls me to my feet. "Scully," he murmurs, "I'm calling your mother." "No!" I snap. "I don't want my mother. I want that tape. I want to know what the hell just happened in that lab. Let go of my arm, Sir. I'm fine." "Scully, you're in shock. Let me drive you home." "Sir, just let me go. I can handle this." "Can you?" he asks softly. "I don't know if I can." I snatch the copy from the agent's outstretched hand and whirl to face them both, backing out of the room holding the tape as if it's a grenade, threatening to blow us all to bits. "I am going to go home," I say. "I am going to go home and work on a report. I will call you when I'm ready to turn it in." And that's exactly what I do. Well, the going home part anyway. xxxxx My apartment is silent. I toss the tape onto the coffee table and stand in my own living room as if I have no idea where to go next. My answering machine blinks maniacally. I'm sure it's my mother. I haven't cried yet, not really. The tears of angry frustration when I dropped my house keys from shaking hands in the hallway don't count. It is only when I've shrugged out of my coat and hung it neatly in the closet, once I have settled with a fat little throw pillow on the couch, that I finally feel the weight of what has happened. My partner, my best friend, is dead. Dead as in not in his apartment, his car, or his parents' cabin. Dead as in not in the hospital or the sanitarium. Not in Antarctica or Peru or Russia. Not on a wild goose chase in Oregon or vacationing at Graceland. Dead as in not going to come back and wrap his arms around me and tell me how good it feels to do so. This is not a hallucination, he is not going to have escaped from the boxcar. Lowering my head to my knees, I weep. I don't know how long I have my head down, but when I raise my eyes, the first thing I notice is that the tape is gone. I have a moment of panic. Have I left it somewhere? In the car? God forbid, at the lab? NoÉ there it is, on the chair. Only I hadn't left it on the chair. In its place on the coffee table is one of my notebooks, the one I usually use in the evening, writing in it before I go to bed. Next to it lays the pen I always leave by the phone. For a long moment I simply stare at them as if they are straight from Reticula. Then I open the notebook. Paging past my own nightly musings, I find a letter, addressed to me, written on the first blank page. It is Mulder's handwriting. Scully, it says. Scully. In his lyrically loopy writing, with the long tails on his "y"s that seem to stretch out into space. Scully. I have never seen a lovelier word. "Scully, for God's sake, woman, stop crying. I'm not dead. I hate it when you cry. It completely ruins your 'iron g-woman' facade. I'll say it again, or rather, write it again: I am not dead. I am very much alive and well and horny as hell, as always. "I don't know where I am, Scully, nor can I explain it to your scientific satisfaction, but I will do what I can. Starting at the beginning, as you always insist. Oh and I didn't read this notebook. Ok, I might have perused a few entries, particularly where my name was mentioned. How is it, Scully, that you never told me to my face that you thought I looked sexy in my leather jacket? Or that you have dreams where I make slow, sweet love to you? I have those dreams too, you know. I think it's extraordinarily sweet, Scully, that you write about me in your diary. 'Dear Diary, today Mulder read you and violated me in the most personal of ways, and I loved it.' Anyway. "Ok, so I'm standing in the lab, looking for fruit flies (little bastards) when I feel something. I can't tell you what it was, exactly, except that it felt like a sudden awareness of every muscle in my body, like I was being pleasantly electrocuted. I turned to look behind me and there she was. Francine Roberson. She's quite a looker, Scully. You'd love her, she resembles a certain little entomologist you were so fond of. And she told me the room was about to blow up and we'd better get our asses in gear, so to speak. So I did. And you wouldn't believe it, Scully. From right behind me, the explosion spread out like a painting, like a blooming flower of fire and debris. It was magnificent and terrible at the same time. I was worried about you, by the way, and noticed you had cut your leg. It's all right, though, right? God Scully, this is so fucking weird, even for me. "Apparently Dr. Roberson has developed some sort of injection, a reaction, or something, that accelerates the human metabolism and reflexes to such a rate that I am, in fact, probably sitting right there in the room with you as you read this and you can't even see me. It's as if the world is suddenly standing still and I am the only thing moving. Well, me and Francine. See, time passes very slowly in this world, Scully. Already it feels like I've been this way for weeks, though according to my watch, it has only been a few hours. It's sort of mystically wonderful, like a Tibetan meditation ritual or a scene from 'The Matrix', but at the same time, this is the loneliest place I have ever known. You remember 'Night of the Comet'? Francine has been this way for weeks, or in her time, months, and wellÉ I guess she was just lonely. So she injected Wayne, but apparently he wasn't interested in umÉ ladies, and locked himself in the closet, both literally and figuratively. So she picked me, next, since it was clear I was single. Yeah, right. Saw me today in the lab and thought, there's a 'nice tall drink of water', to quote your diary. Don't worry, Scully, I haven't been deflowered. Yet. Francine has agreed to let me have a few days by myself to 'get used to things'. Scully, you know I've been saving myself for the right woman. And it ain't Francine, rest assured. "Anyway, I have no idea how to reverse this. You have to help me, Scully. I know I've always been 'Type A', but this is ridiculous. Oh, and I'm sorry about all the food in your fridge. I'm starving, all the time. I went to the store and managed to drink about ten cartons of orange juice in half an hour. I'm sure it freaked the box boy out to no end, since they were probably just suddenly appearing in his time and space, like cartons from heaven. So, I'm going to take a nap while you read this. I suspect, if you creep in, you'll see me lying on your bed. Feel free to take full advantage of me, since every touch will no doubt feel like an hour-long caress to me. "Oh and Scully, I appreciate the tears. I really do. You have no idea how desperately I miss you. Please hurry. Things are so quiet here, it's unnerving. "Love, Mulder." For a second, I stand there, clutching that damn notebook to my heart as if it is the man himself. He is alive! He has managed to launch himself into some alternate perception of time, but he is alive and that's all that matters. I have a mental image of him, buzzing around me like a fly as I stand there, completely immobile. Good thing I didn't come home and take a shower. Jesus, he read my diary. He's such a fuck. Such a lovely, living fuck. Well, it's not as if we didn't know about each other's feelings. It's more the inertia of this relationship we have created, carrying us in slow motion toward the inevitable. Now he's just seen it in writing, and like the good man he is, he has made sure I have it spelled out for me as well. Though not quite in the detail I sometimes get into. God, I hope he didn't read that especially hot night last AugustÉ ok, maybe I hope he did. That ought to dispel some of his preconceptions about Catholic girls. In the kitchen I find he has, in fact, eaten everything I had, from the ancient can of sardines in the back of my cupboard to the entire box of Keebler party crackers I kept for special occasions. Oh well, something to put the sardines on, I suppose. Damn him, at this point I'd let him eat anything he wanted, even my potted plants. Then I take his advice, and creep quietly into my bedroom. Mulder is lying on my bed. Mulder, not a mirage or a hallucination. The living, breathing thing. His chest is slightly blurred, my vision's limited perception of the movement of his lungs with each breath, but the rest of his body is still. His eyes are closed, but his mouth is slightly open. I have never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life, not in a painting or a book, not in a sunrise or the ocean in the South Seas. For a moment I sit by the bed and let the tears run down my face unashamed. Then I remember that he will wake soon and I will not be able to see him then. Carefully, I lean over and press my lips to his cheek, just beside his own mouth. It is only momentary, but before I can register anything beyond the warmth of his skin, he is gone. I have woken him and his rapid reflexes make it nearly impossible for him to sit still enough for me to see. But now he knows. I have kissed his cheek. I miss him. He knows. Then I get my purse and we ö because he must be with me ö go to the Gunmen's. xxxxx Frohike is sitting on the stool in front of the computer desk, his mouth literally hanging open as he reads Mulder's letter. I know I shouldn't have let him read it, but I couldn't think of any other way to prove to him that Mulder is, in fact, alive. "So, Scully, is there anything in here about a short, slightly balding gentleman who loves you unconditionally?" he asks, flipping through my diary. I grab it back and raise my eyebrow. "To find out, you'd have to become a human mosquito." "Forget it then," he says. And then: "Hey, look at this!" There, on the computer screen is a message. "Frohike, get a fucking move on, you troll." We all stare at it. "He's here," Frohike whispers. "He's right fucking here." "Answer him," Langley suggests. "Any fucking time now," the computer reads suddenly. Nothing around us has changed. "Mulder," Frohike types. "How're you feeling?" "Faster!" the computer displays. "Fine. Annoyed. Hurry up. I want Scully." "So do I, man," Frohike types. "Funny," the computer reads, almost instantaneously. "Touch her and I'll show you some funky ol' Kung Fu. Can you say, globally available internet download?" "Fucker," Frohike answers. Tired of this little game, I push Frohike aside. "Mulder," I type. "Miss U." "U 2," he writes back, and I swear I can feel him there beside me, his fingers pecking around mine as I hover over the keyboard. "Type fast, cure fast, and I'll come home and we can act out a few of those diary entries. I'll even let you call me 'sweetie', as you seem so desperately to want to do." "In your dreÉ" I begin. "No," the computer interrupts. "In ours. Hurry up. Time's a wastin', as we like to say here in Speedy Gonzales land. Frohike, you examine that tape, see what you can tell about what happened to me. Byers, hack into Tempo's mainframe and download Roberson's notes for Scully to look over. Chop chop. This whole 'conversation' has taken about three hours of my time." At that moment, my cell phone rings. Byers and Frohike scatter to their various stations, leaving me more or less alone as I answer the call. "Scully," Skinner's voice says. "I thought you might like an update. How are you doing?" "Fine," I bark, anxious to get back to typing to Mulder. "We haven't found the body yeÉ" he begins. "I know," I say. "That's because Agent Mulder is right here with me." "What?" Skinner says, incredulous. "Why the hell didn't you call andÉ" "Sir, it's complicated. Agent Mulder is notÉ is not himself." "Jesus, what the hell is he now?" This man has worked with us for far too long. "As I said, Sir, it's complicated. I need to get back to work on a solution to his problem. Time is limited. So if you don't mindÉ" "Scully," he says. "I have other news. The researcher you and Mulder were looking for, Francine Roberson?" "I'm in!" Byers shouts from somewhere behind me. "I'm downloading." "Yes?" I say, glancing at the computer screen where Mulder has written: "Less talky, more type-y." "She's dead." "She's what?" I say, a sinking feeling spreading through my stomach. "Where? When?" "Today, in her apartment. The medical examiner feels it looks like heart failure, though that's only preliminary." "Jesus." I let my breath out. "Sir, I have to go. Now. I'll get back to you as soon as I have news of Agent Mulder's return toÉ normal." "Scully, if you can get Agent Mulder alive and well, much less normal, I will be most grateful. Good luck." "Thank you, Sir," I say and hang up. "'Bout time," the computer says. "What's up? Did someone just get their ass chewed out?" "No," I type. "Francine is dead. Heart failure. You don't have much tiÉ" "I know," Mulder types. "Shit. This is probably taking months off my life, right Scully? Don't all mammals have a finite number of heart beats, however they use them? That old analogy of the elephant and the elephant shrew, hearts beating the same number of times, but one lives for three years, the other for fifty because of how quickly those beats are used up?" "Theoretically," I type, my own heart constricting. "But you've only been this way for a short time. She had weeks. Byers is bringing over the research. Hang in there, partner." Byers hands me a thick stack of pages and we begin our search. At one point, collapsed on the couch as I read through Francine Roberson's research, I could swear I feel Mulder's arms around me, just for a moment, and then the sensation is gone. It is lovely, and a bit like being tickled by a giant fruit fly. I wonder just what was brushing Mulder's cheek in that lab? Damn entomologists. xxxxx Two hours, or an infinity, later, it is Byers who finds it. "Look at this, Scully!" he shouts and I come to stand behind him. "There," he points to an equation. "Tell me that isn't what I think it is." "It is," I whisper, my heart starting to pound. "It's the formula for a metabolic booster shot." "So all we have to do is figure out how to reverse the effect, if it's even possible, and then inject Mulder," he says. "Right," I answer, dryly. "If it's even possible." Frohike motions from the monitor. "Wanna see something cool?" "Sure," I say, feeling infinitely weary. Today my partner died and was resurrected. Hallelujah. Can I go to bed now? Frohike angles the monitor so I can see it and points to the screen. It is a still frame of Mulder standing alone in the lab. "Thirty frames a second, pretty good resolution for a security camera. Now watch, over hereÉ" He points to a slightly blurry point on the screen and then begins to run the video, slowly, frame by frame. The blur begins to move. Toward Mulder. "Hello Francine," I say aloud. "Watch this, Scully, it's amazing," Frohike says. Francine moves closer and pauses, for all of a frame, by Mulder, a thick blur behind him. Then suddenly, in the next frame, he is moving. His arms blur, then his legs, then by the final frame before the bright white blast, he is gone. Actually gone. "Oh my God," I whisper. "He outran it, just like he said." "Sure," Frohike says. "Didn't your professor ever use the analogy of the building with the pigeons and the snails?" I shake my head, still staring at the blank frame. My God. Proof. As if wise-cracking computers weren't proof enough. "Ok, say you have a house and you want to blow it up." "Why?" Langley interjects from the table with Byers. "Why what?" Frohike says. "Why would you want to blow up your own house?" "I don't know," Frohike sighs. "You just do, ok?" "Well, it just seems like a stupid thing to É" Langley begins but is shushed by Byers. Frohike shakes his head and continues. "So, on the roof of the house sit a flock of pigeons. In the garden are several hundred snails. Here's the amazing thing. Birds, you see, perceive time differently than humans. While we tend to perceive the passage of time in terms of whole seconds, birds register events on a micro-second scale. Their reflexes are wired accordingly. So when you blow up the house, the pigeons register the explosion long before we do, and are able to fly to safety. Snails, on the other hand, sense the passage of time in several-second intervals, and consequently, react much more slowly. So slowly, in fact, that they do not register the explosion at all. It's as if one second they are sitting in their nice green garden, and the next the entire world is covered in smoking debris." "So to Mulder, with his sped-up reflexes and perception of time, the explosion happened so slowly he was able to simply walk away?" "Exactly," Frohike finishes. "Cool, huh?" "Well," Langley interjects, "Why we can't feel him, like a breeze?" "You could, if he held his hand against your nose for what seems to him like hours. But he's moving so quickly that if he punched you, your body wouldn't even register the blow, only the damage afterwards." "Like being in a car wreck," Byers interjects. "By the time you realize someone's hit you, it's already over." "Ah," Langley says. "That works. So, Byers, what have you got?" "I think I've got it," he answers. "Scully, come check this with meÉ" xxxxx Byers watches as I prepare the syringe. "God, I hope this works." "No shit," I say, tapping out the needle. "What now? Do I tell him to inject himself? You know how Mulder is with needles." "You're going to have to inject him," Byers agrees. I sigh and take a seat at the computer. "Mulder, I think we've got it," I type. "Thank God. I've been reading all of Frohike's porn collection, and I'll tell ya, there is only so much any woman can do with a giant double-ended dildo before you begin to get blasŽ. Hey, Frohike, there's quite a few short redheads in there. You aiming for someone in particular?" Frohike is blushing madly. "Bastard," he whispers. "Knock it off," I type. "I need to inject u w/something." "Where?" he asks. "Good question," Byers interjects. "He's going to have to hold still for hours before you'll be able to see him. So the arm is out." "Plus," Langley adds, "the needle is going to feel like it's taking minutes to penetrate his skin. It'll have to be somewhere he can hold still even if he's in pain." "Your butt," I type. "You're kidding, right?" appears instantly on the screen. "No," I type. "Go lie on the couch w/yr pants down. As soon as I can c u, I will inject u. It'll feel like it's taking 4ever. It'll hurt like hell, but you MUST hold still." "You did this on purpose. I know it. Couldn't I take it orally?" "He even whines faster," Frohike marvels. "No," I say. "Do it now." "Guys, leave the room," appears on the screen. "This is for Scully's eyes only." Grousing, the gunmen leave. I am alone and waiting, staring at the couch as if I'm waiting for the second coming to begin there. I cannot believe I am waiting for Mulder's ass to appear before me. After this is over, he and I are going to have a talk about bimbo insect researchers, may this one rest in peace. I understand loneliness, I really do. But she had no right to take from me the one thing that keeps me from strangling my lone self. Twenty minutes later, Frohike pokes his arm into the room and hands me a magazine. At first I'm afraid it might be a skin rag, but it's just National Geographic with a couple issues of The Lone Gunman tucked inside. I flip through articles on beetles that shoot boiling hot acid from their renal glands ö Mulder would love that, I think ö and photo essays on mountain climbing in New Zealand and am almost ready to crack open the Gunman when I see something out of the corner of my eye. It is Mulder, materializing into my line of site like a hummingbird's wings as it stops to wait out the rain. He is there, lying on the couch, his face cradled in the crook of his arm, one bare cheek artfully draped by his pants and the edge of his shirt. I run to him and look down for just a moment. He is certainly looking at me, but his eyes move so quickly, they are simply gray holes in his face. Unnerved, I look down at the tender skin of his butt and then jamb the syringe in and depress the plunger in one swift motion, trying to spare him pain. He howls. God help me, I can hear it, beginning like a high-pitched whine and then dropping, octave by octave, until it morphs into a full-throated Mulder shout of pain. He is back. I collapse beside him as he twists, still unnaturally quick, to grasp me, pants down and all. I feel his heart rate slow as we crouch there, arms wrapped around each other. And then he is kissing my head, my cheeks, my noseÉ as if he had lost me forever, and perhaps in the lonely hours of the last day, it felt as if he had. I know that I'm overwhelmed by the sheer physicality of him, his large warm hands and throbbing skin. "Scully," he says, his voice a bit too high, but dropping like a teenage boy. "Thank you, Scully." "Anytime, partner," I whisper into his soft hair. "AnyÉ timeÉ at all." end Send me email, I spread them on my toast like butter!